This is the seventh instalment of a four-month trans-Africa trip from Johannesburg to London that I did with Exodus Expeditions in 1980, travelling by ex-army truck and camping. We were not sightseeing, though we did see some incredible sights. Our goal was to see and experience Africa from south to north by whatever route was open. Four months. Twelve people. One truck. Fifteen countries. 18,000 kilometres. Links to the earlier posts are listed at the end of this one.



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And so it continues, the never-ending road to Bangui, the mud and the slush, the puddles, the oozing orange muck, and the relentless battle just to get through, just to make a little progress each day.





We lose track of time. It’s as if we’ve entered an alternate universe, where each day we’re presented with the same challenges over and over. There are still ferries across wide rivers to be negotiated. We wade in and drag the ramps into place, Craig or Brett drives the truck on, and locals pole us across the water, often chanting/singing as they go.





Truth be told none of us want to wade into the rivers, and there are one or two people who never do. There’s this thing called bilharzia, also known as schistosomiasis or snail fever. It’s a disease caused by parasitic worms and is the second most dangerous parasitic disease after malaria. The parasites live in some species of freshwater snails and come out of the snail into the water, and then burrow into your skin. Southern and sub-Saharan Africa are high risk areas. And yeah, we all know all about bilharzia. Once inside you those little fuckers can then lodge in just about any part of your body including the brain. Oh it’s nasty. And none of us want to get it, but it can’t be helped. We start trying to be very careful not to get into any of the rivers. After a few weeks on the road all but a couple of us realize that it’s just not possible to stay out of them; we have to take the risk because we have to keep going, we have to find a way through and getting into the rivers is part of it.

On the other side of each river there’s still the same “road”,





sometimes almost swallowed by the ever encroaching jungle, so that it becomes barely discernible. There are still questionable bridges to be crossed,





and the mud. Always the mud.





And then it happens. The truck sinks down on one side and we are bogged.





Initially it’s fine. We’ve been bogged before. The guys take turns squatting by the truck, reaching arms up to their shoulders down into the muck to stuff foliage under the wheels; anything to help get a little traction.

We take turns, on both the front wheel and the back, digging out the muck with our hands and stuffing whatever we can find under the wheels. We try winching the truck but there are not any trees strong enough to attach the winch to. So it’s back down to put more under the wheels. And every time we get more foliage under the wheels Craig starts the engine and tries to move forward as we all push. Everyone of us pushing with all our strength, over and over. Nothing. On and on it goes, without success.

We stop for lunch. Dawn’s on clean up duty and washes dishes as best she can right in the middle of the road; there’s nowhere else to go.





None of us are wading too far into that jungle. And when Steve emerges with the snake we give thanks that it’s already dead.





But lunch, and later a break for a cup of tea,





are not helping us. We are well and truly stuck.

There’s a village near by. The villagers come to watch us, staring at our predicament. For now we are the entertainment, though undoubtedly they’ve seen similar situations many times.

I don’t know why it takes Craig so long to make the decision. Perhaps he wants to try doing everything that we can possibly do to get ourselves out of there. Perhaps he’s watching the budget. Perhaps he’s not really aware of how much it will actually cost. Either way he finally caves. He walks to the village and pays the chief to help us.

Suddenly we are surrounded by every man and boy from the village, twenty or more of them. They separate into two groups, half at the front to pull and half at the back to push. They are like an army – instantly organized. And then it starts – the chanting; it’s as if it gives them strength. The entire group chants a loud strong rhythmic chant as they put all their strength into moving our truck.

In less than five minutes we are free! We’ve been bogged for ten hours, and in less than five minutes the villagers with their numbers, and their strength, and their chanting, and their unity, have us free. Hallelujah! Oh sweet relief!

But this journey is not all bad. In some ways it’s a bit of a lark, slopping around in the mud, shoes long discarded, like kids again. At the same time we know that this is no game, and that we must stay focussed and keep pushing on. And in between the hours of soul destroying slog there are moments of pure joy.

We are hailed by every village we pass through.





People shout and wave, and kids dance for us as we go by.





In this village, even though everyone is outdoors and there seems to be a celebration, all the kids leave it to come stare and wave at us.





We continue shopping for fruits and vegetables at the local markets, trading our empty cans and bottles when we can. Often there is not much available but the people are unfailingly open and friendly.

We camp in a village, probably because it’s late in the day and there is nowhere else suitable. We set up the tents, get the tables down, get a fire going, make dinner. And then the drums start. Within minutes the entire village is dancing into the night and us with them.





Except me. Dinner is over, but I am determined to make granola for the group. I keep a low fire going and throw the ingredients into the pan, oats and nuts and a little oil, and stir gently until it’s all toasted, while I watch the others dance, taking this rare chance to really cut loose.

And the best thing on this whole 1300 kilometre journey, from the Sudan border to Bangui in the Central African Republic, is Kembé Falls, just eighty kilometres from Bangassou.





There’s are ledges at the edge of the falls where we can sit and let the warm water wash over us, and a campsite on the expansive flat rocks. We wash body and clothes until everything is squeaky clean. Craig ties a rope to his ankle with Brett holding the other end, in case he slips and gets washed over! It looks so silly, like something from a cartoon, and I doubt they think it’s really a serious safety net.





Meanwhile we women go to a calmer spot and luxuriate in the clean warm water. Everything is washed.





And we all finally relax on the rock ledges in the soft sunset light, clean, content, happy.





We are all adventurers. It is the reason we chose to come on this journey. And while it is at times stressful, and challenging, and we are almost always filthy and often tired, there is also the excitement of it, as if we are pioneers exploring a distant and alien land, putting ourselves into a place where we have to rely on ourselves and the others we are with, and be patient and brave and accepting and cheerful. We can rail against it, or we can surrender to it. In a land that is almost impossible to traverse, and that has seen decades of unrest, I never feel unsafe. Looking back it feels as if our entire expedition was held in a kind of bubble, as if, as long as we did our part, there was nothing that could harm us.








Next post: At last! Bangui! Ten days camped at the edge of one of the most isolated, and poorest cities in the world. An urgent quest for help, and oh yeah, the fight I mentioned in post 4.

Disclosure:
1. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved for privacy
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2. Obviously any photo with me in it was taken by another member of the group, but I’ve no idea who. We all swapped photos when we got to London.

Previous posts:
1. The Drums Of Africa
2. Tanzania Mania
3. Wildlife And Tribal Life In Kenya
4. The Opposite Of Glamping
5. Turn left At Sudan
6. Mud Luscious and Puddle Wonderful. Central African Republic






All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2024.